We two have sate and sung together
Full oft that old familiar strain;
Ah, Friend! who now shall tell us whether
We e'er shall do the like again!

My voice is faint, and dim mine eyes,
And heavy comes my oft-drawn breath;
And every day that onward flies,
Says plainer than the last, 'tis death.

Oh! when again two voices try
That strain, not ours the notes shall be;
Thou wilt not sing it then, and I
Shall sleep unheeding e'en of thee.

The thought of me will cross thee then,
Where'er thou art, whate'er thy doom;
And from the hum of living men,
Invite thy Spirit to the Tomb.

There wilt thou see, while crowds rejoice,
My prostrate form, remote and still;
And mark, 'mid many a living voice,
The silence of the Grave I fill.

I would that moment I might be
A sun-beam on thine eye to start;
Or with as bright a witchery,
A cheerful thought to cross thy heart.

Mourn not, Beloved, think I pass'd
Before my soul's first virtue died;
That from the world remotely cast,
I fell not, for I was not tried.

And in me youthful still, survived
The peace, the truth, my Maker gave;
They might have withered, had I liv'd,
But grew immortal on my grave.

Ah! then, my friend, whene'er the day
Shall bring this strain, and I am not;
My early death shall be the ray,
The cheerful thought, my humble lot.